


Straw Dog

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Drugs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:59:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Just for the record, Brad thinks maybe it’s the drugs talking.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Straw Dog

**Author's Note:**

> The closer I get to feeling the further that I’m feeling from alright

Brad is sitting on the bed staring at the phone. He’s waiting for Mike to call. Mike always calls, nowadays, to make sure he’s okay. “Just checking up,” he always tells him with false cheer that Brad doesn’t even try to return. They both know that everything is fucked up; Mike just likes to dance around things until he can no longer avoid them.

He’s too tired to pretend he’s okay today. Wal-Mart does that to a person. Scanning endless amounts of groceries all day numbs the brain…so does heroin...but that’s not the point. Suddenly, Brad wants Mike to call, wants Mike to get in touch with his med-school student friend. Med-school students have to follow doctors around local hospitals twice a week and take notes, Mike told him. After much persuasion Mike gave a tired sigh and muttered that yes, he was sure his friend would be able to get his hands on some syringes.

This is all Chester’s fault, Brad thinks, because he’d never even considered drugs before Chester came along. But really, when he’s dressed to impress you can’t say no to Chester. When he’s offering you a line of smack you can’t say no either…and things are so confusing with a syringe in your vein that you’d have trouble saying pretty much anything.

The ringing of the phone is like a war siren, cutting through the quiet of the room. Brad jumps slightly, reaches out sluggishly to pick up the receiver and breathes silently down the line.

Mike says “Hello? Brad?”

And Brad doesn’t recognise his own voice when he says “Hey. Hey Mike. Sup?”

“I was er…I’m playing a gig at the amphitheatre. Was wondering...I mean...you want to come?”

“Chester is home tonight. I want to see him.”

Mike breathes heavily, a sigh or something…an over exaggerated exhalation that makes Brad feel slightly worse than worthless. “I know you do.”

“He loves me.”

“What happened to you, Brad?”

Mike and Brad had plans. All through high school they planned to make it big, break the boundaries and be remembered. Fame, after all, was the only thing they knew could make them immortal. When Mike went to Art School and Brad to UCLA, everything changed. Brad met Chester and soon realised that drugs could make you immortal too, but nobody else knew that. When they first kissed, Brad called Mike up and said “listen…about our plans…” and Mike had just sighed, sighed loudly down the line and said okay. He never yelled, never cried or got mad. He just agreed, almost forced compliance even though Brad would have felt better had Mike tried to knock some sense into him.

Just for the record, Brad was kicked out of college along with Chester. Nobody likes a smack head. Just for the record, Brad has learned how to fiddle the Wal-Mart system, has learned how to mess with the cash registers until he goes home with a one hundred bucks advance on his wages each night. Just for the record, Brad once robbed a liquor store, just for the cash in the drawer.

Brad doesn’t say anything back, just hangs up the phone slowly and continues to stare at the wall. There’s a sound, somewhere, from the other end of the apartment. The sound of a key in a lock and the creak of the old hinges, rusted with old water which leaks from the pipes above. There are footsteps, sure and steady, making their way across the floor boards which are ruined with dry rot. And a voice, probably speaking loudly but Brad’s nervous system is so slow that everything sounds as if it’s underwater, it’s saying “Hey you. What's up?”

The bed dips and Brad feels Chester’s soft hand stroke his face gently. He leans into the touch with a content sigh and murmurs, “Nothing.”

“I love you.” Chester declares quietly, gazing at Brad with adoring eyes.

Brad smiles, closes his eyes and says “Okay.” Brad, he’s only nineteen, he doesn’t know what love is yet. Or maybe his heart has been numbed by the drugs. Who knows?

“I got some gear.” Chester says lightly, because this is an every day thing now.

Brad turns and eyes the bag of powder dangling from his lover’s hand. “It’s brown.” He says, distastefully. “It’s probably mixed with dust.”

“Junk’s junk, Brad, stop being a whiney little bitch. I had to take a fisting for this, so be fucking grateful.”

Just for the record, Brad hates that Chester sells himself for their addictions. As long as Brad can pay the rent for them both on their shitty little two room apartment, Chester will pay three quarters of Brad’s share on the drugs. It’s not always heroin, because they can’t afford that, sometimes its crack, or weed or ecstasy…anything that will numb the pain.

Just for the record, Brad can’t remember what started his pain in the first place.

Chester’s asking, “Smoke?”

“No, no...do me a line.” Snorting something makes it seem more like drugs. Smoking has the same effect, but Brad likes the feeling or rebellion he gets from lines and needles. He’d inject, but his veins have thickened and it hurts too much just now. Everything hurts too much, but somehow all that Brad can think of his Mike’s forlorn sigh down the phone line.

There’s a mirror being placed on his lap with a long white line separating his reflection. He rolls up a dollar and places it at the end, wishing he could feel good without this, wishing that he had never met Chester, wishing that he and Mike could have made it big, wishing he was immortal the way he knew his friend would end up.

Suddenly there’s no powder left on the mirror and his head is buzzing and fuck if everything around him isn’t perfect. He leans into Chester, unbuttoning the older man’s shirt and slipping it off his shoulders. In the sickly light of the bedroom, Chester’s scars are beautiful, from the track lines to the knife wound from where one dealer got impatient with him. The flickering light bulb throws everything into hazy beauty and the drugs knock everything just out of focus.

Brad blames the drugs and the bad lighting, but mostly the drugs, as he kisses Chester gently and thinks that fame isn’t immortality. Your name in lights. It doesn’t mean shit. It’s all so fucking overrated that Brad laughs against the sweat-slick skin of Chester’s neck as he presses himself forward and moans in the back of his throat.

So maybe he won’t live forever? It doesn’t matter because, for now, he’s happy.

Just for the record, Brad thinks maybe it’s the drugs talking.


End file.
